A new chime rang out in the air, sharp enough to make everyone flinch. The screen reappeared, brighter this time.
[ Starter Pack Distributed ]
With a shimmer, items appeared at each person's feet: a small bundle wrapped in coarse cloth. Tom crouched and untied his. Inside was a rusty dagger, its edge dull and speckled with brown corrosion, a plain grey cloak that smelled faintly of dust, and a small leather pouch jingling with 100 coins.
"Seriously? This is what we get to fight with?" a man in a green jacket said, holding up his dagger like it was an insult.
"Could be worse," another muttered. "Could've been nothing."
Tom ignored them for a moment and noticed a faint icon flickering at the corner of his vision. When he focused on it, another window opened.
[ Face Menu ]
Status: UNKNOWN
His brow creased. UNKNOWN. No figure. No power. Just emptiness.
"Guess I'm special," he murmured dryly to himself.
A sudden gasp cut through the air. Then, a shout.
"I… I got something!"
Everyone turned to see a short, stocky man clutching his head. A ghostly shape hovered beside him—a massive, broad-shouldered figure, faint but unmistakable which none couldn't see, only a Facebearer can see other's Face.
The man's grin spread wide. "Holy hell. It's Hercules!"
Voices broke out instantly.
"No way."
"He got a Face?!"
"How the hell did you get that?"
Another person spoke up this one, a tall, thin woman with a strange, spectral fox-headed figure floating at her side. She didn't say a name, only looked quietly pleased.
Tom felt a twinge of envy, but it was buried under a bigger question, why them and not him?
"I don't get it," someone said, rubbing his temple. "No one explained how we even… unlock this crap."
"That's the point," the woman with the fox said flatly. "They want us to figure it out. Or die trying."
"That's bullshit," the green-jacket man spat. "If this is some 'game,' it's the kind that screws you from the start."
"Keep your voice down. We are not here for.... What? ," Tom said sharply.
The man turned on him. " I won't shut or what?"
Before Tom could answer, the air shifted again warmer, heavier. Everyone stopped talking at once. The timer in Tom's head read 44:32. The Night Hunt was getting closer.
Somewhere in the ruins, metal clanged, like something dragging itself over the rooftops.
A deep voice from the group muttered, "We should stick together. No hero crap."
Hercules-man gave a nervous laugh. "Hero crap is kinda my thing now."
"Yeah," someone replied, "and heroes die first."
The tension broke for just a second with a ripple of uneasy laughter, but it didn't last. The shadows were longer now, curling into shapes that didn't quite match the broken walls around them.
Tom adjusted his cloak and scanned the streets. No Face or power. Just a dagger, a pouch of coins, and the sense that when the hourglass ran out, they'd all see what the Night Hunt really meant.
And if he didn't find a way to get his own Face soon…
He might not live to see morning.
They moved through the ruins as a loose cluster, their footsteps resounding against hollow walls and broken streets. Tom kept a steady pace near the center of the group, not charging ahead, not lagging behind.
His black hair shifted with each slow step, the strands falling across his brow until he brushed them back with absent ease. His face was calm—too calm, some might think for a place like this. His dark eyes sharp and deliberate, always scanning corners, windows, and rooftops. He didn't waste words. When he did speak, it was in short, measured sentences, his voice even and clear, like every word had been chosen twice before leaving his mouth.
His walk matched his tone. No wasted motion, no nervous shifting. He carried the rusty dagger like it was an extension of his hand, but not as if he planned to use it without reason. There was a weight to him, a stillness that suggested patience rather than fear.
A boyish-looking man in the group didn't share that composure. The timid one kept glancing over his shoulder, flinching at shadows, muttering half-formed worries under his breath. Every sound seemed to make him shrink.
Then it happened.
A low snarl cut through the air, sharp enough to freeze everyone mid-step. From the jagged maw of a collapsed alley, something lunged a massive, wolf-shaped creature, its limbs twisted with muscle, eyes burning like embers. Its claws scraped stone as it closed the distance in a blur.
It was heading straight for the tall woman.
She froze. Her dagger slipped in her grip, her breath catching. Instinct took over and she covered her face with both arms, bracing for teeth and claws.
But nothing touched her.
Instead, a wet, sickening crack bursted. She opened her eyes in fear.
The creature was sprawled several meters away, its skull shattered like brittle stone, blood pooling dark on the cracked pavement. Its body twitched once, then went still.
Gasps erupted from the group. Hercules-man swore under his breath. The timid guy whimpered.
Tom's eyes narrowed. He hadn't seen the blow land, only the moment before and after. But now he saw it, the faint glisten of psychic pressure hanging in the air.
Behind the woman floated a fox-headed figure, its translucent form rippling, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
Only those with a Face could see it. Tom's empty status meant nothing showed for him, but he knew exactly what he was looking at. The psychic energy still radiated from the figure like heat off scorched metal.
The woman's breathing was fast, but she wasn't smiling. She just stared at the dead creature, her knuckles white on the dagger.
The group's silence stretched. The timer kept ticking.
38:51.
The Night Hunt had already found them.
The group had barely recovered from the shock of the werewolf's sudden death when a voice erupted behind them.
Hercules-man was stomping forward, shoulders hunched, face twisted in anger.
"You think you're special?" he snarled, pointing at the tall woman. "You get some shiny ghost thing, and suddenly you're—"
His voice broke off into a guttural sound.
Tom's eyes sharpened. The man's veins bulged along his neck and arms, as if something inside was trying to force its way out. His teeth clenched so hard they might have shattered. A deep red flush spread across his skin.
Then without warning.... his head burst.
The sound was wet and final.
Gasps and cries tore through the group. Blood and ash sprayed the cracked pavement. There was no sign of a strike, no flash of energy, just a man, alive one second, gone the next.
No one moved to check him. They all knew.
Something here didn't tolerate losing control.
In the heavy silence, they moved on.
Tom slowed his pace until he matched the tall woman's stride. She kept her eyes forward, her hands clasped around the hilt of her dagger as if it were an anchor. She had light golden hair, wearing pink fancy dress but dirty.
"Grace Lewis, right?" he asked gently.
She glanced at him, a brief flicker of surprise crossing her face. "Yes." Her voice was quiet, almost cautious.
"I'm Tom," he said. "I think you're lucky. Getting a Face this early might save you."
Her gaze dropped to the ground. "Lucky…" She let the word linger as if she wasn't sure she believed it. "It feels more like… something dangerous I can't put down."
He nodded slowly. "Both can be true."
They walked in silence for a while, the city's ruins giving way to broken ridges of stone. Tom caught small details about her that how she adjusted her grip when the wind shifted, how she scanned the ground before every step. He guessed she was older than him, maybe by several years. There was a steadiness about her, even under fear.
Eventually, the jagged terrain opened up, and they reached the edge of a high plateau.
The sight made the group pause.
Far below stretched a dead forest, its trees nothing but skeletal black sticks jutting from dry, cracked earth. Among them lay the crumbling remains of a town. The Roofs collapsed, walls hollowed out. The sunlight bled red across the scene, making the dry soil look like rust.
"That's our next stop?" someone muttered.
Tom didn't answer. He just studied the way the hourglass above reflected faintly in the town's broken windows.
For a brief moment, the group's harsh breathing softened. A timid player offered Grace his canteen, and she accepted it with a small nod. Another man cracked a weak joke about how "at least no one's charging rent here," drawing a few reluctant chuckles.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
Grace handed the canteen back to the timid player with a quiet "thank you." Tom saw the faintest smile on her lips before it vanished.
The moment passed. The plateau's wind grew colder.
The timer still ticked.
And the dead town waited for them like an open mouth.